True Colours
by Lindenharp
Summary: DI Robbie Lewis expected things to be different when he returned to Oxford after two years away. He didn't expect to find himself with a clever-clogs sergeant who quotes Shakespeare, plays strange music—and hasn't got an aura like normal people. Pre-slash Lewis/Hathaway. Rating for language, racism, canon-typical violence, and mention of canon child sexual abuse (Crevecoeur)


**Did you ever hear someone say that they're feeling blue? Blue is the colour of sadness. People can feel sad for many reasons. You might feel sad if your favourite toy is broken, or if your best friend has gone far away. If you see someone with a blue aura, be kind.**

 ** _My First Little Book of Auras_**

It takes a while for Robbie to notice. To be fair, he's hardly at his best after twelve hours over the Atlantic and not a wink of sleep. Walking down the ramp into the terminal, he instinctively suppresses his Sight. Even so, the auras of the crowd in the waiting area are as gaudy as his tropical shirt. Out of habit, he scans the people around him, and Sees the usual colours of a busy public transportation facility: impatience, anxiety, boredom, and anticipation. There's a sudden flash of joyous yellow as two family members reunite. An angry glower of dark red from a po-faced woman is aimed at the man beside her, whose aura is streaked with anxious grey. Small resentments flaring up in the stress of travel, Robbie decides. There's no reason to think that their spat will turn violent. Any road, it'd be airport security's problem. No doubt some of the terminal staff have already noticed the couple. Auras only display emotions and can't forecast actions, but anyone who works with the public quickly learns which colours signal possible trouble.

He moves on, and there's a tall young man holding a sign marked with his name. Detective Sergeant Hathaway is polite and reserved, and his aura is so tightly restrained that Robbie can't See it among the kaleidoscopic crowd. Robbie wonders if he's normally like this, or if it's the presence of an unknown senior officer that has Hathaway so shuttered. Once outside, he's distracted, first by the maniac in a red Jaguar who nearly runs him down, and then by the flood of memories on the road to Oxford. After a brief attempt at polite conversation, Hathaway falls silent.

At the cemetery, the grief hits him again, as if the two years away had never been, as if the grave before him is still fresh dirt mixed with grey slush. He takes in a deep breath, and the pain recedes. It is not a cloudy December day. The grass on Val's grave is thick and green. Above, the sun is bright in a sky the colour of sorrow. Robbie scowls. No one can see his own aura, but he'd bet a tenner that his is as blue as the sky right now. As he bends down to remove a stray leaf from the grave, he glances at Hathaway. The tall sergeant is standing a respectful distance away, head bowed and hands clasped. Praying? Robbie doesn't care, as long as the man leaves him alone. He straightens up. "See you soon, bonny lass."

It's not until they're leaving the cemetery that he really looks at Hathaway. It's a good job that the sergeant is behind the wheel—Robbie might have swerved off the road if he'd been driving.

Hathaway isn't just shuttered. There's no faint leakage of colours around the edges of his body. He has _no_ aura. He's a Blank—one of those unfortunates whose emotions do not visibly project like a normal human being. Robbie only vaguely remembers what he learned about auratic biology long ago in Sixth Form science. It's got something to do with hormones. And, of course, he knows the old schoolyard rhyme: "Blank is Blind and dull of mind". It's true that nearly all Blanks are also Blind, and can't See other people's auras.

"Dull of mind" is just ignorant prejudice. Morse had ranted about it once during a case where one of the suspects was a civil engineer who'd been passed over for promotion because he was a Blank. "The ones who are truly dull of mind," he'd said acidly, "are the fools who prefer mumbo-jumbo over science. They probably believe in voodoo and take advice from palm-readers and astrologers." And because it was Morse and they were in a pub, his usually-controlled aura had flared magnificently around him, like an old-fashioned cape on a windy moor.

Robbie doesn't say anything to Hathaway. What would be the point? Any road, it's none of Robbie's business. It becomes his business when they wind up investigating the Regan Peverill case together. He still keeps schtum. He'll wait and learn how a Blank functions as a detective. The answer is: surprising well. If Hathaway can't See auras, his sharp eyes see everything else, and his sharp mind puts the puzzle pieces together. Before he knows it, Robbie has a bagman. Then a partner. And then, a friend. It's an unexpected friendship. At first glance, they're chalk and cheese. But somehow, when they're talking over a couple of pints, the differences seem unimportant. Well, most of the differences...

Robbie has never been friends with a Blank before. He's met more than a few: suspects and coppers, shop assistants and assistant professors, ticket takers and cricket players. He can get along with almost anyone, and he doesn't need to be reminded of antidiscrimination laws to treat 'achromatic individuals' with fairness and decency. But he's never had a close relationship with someone he couldn't See.

It turns out to be easier and more difficult than he could have imagined. Hathaway is an awkward sod at the best of times. His posh way of speaking (big words and quotes from the boys in the band) puts off a lot of his fellow coppers. Robbie doesn't mind that too much. It's clear the lad isn't trying to show off—this is just how he is.

To tell the truth, Hathaway reminds Robbie of Morse: brainy, intuitive, and a little too fond of bending the rules. Like Morse, Hathaway is guarded about his personal life. Doesn't talk about his family or his past. He doesn't drink like Morse, thank God, though Robbie's not best pleased by the smoking.

* * *

 **Everyone knows that pink is the colour of love. Valentines are pink. In many cultures, both the bride and groom are expected to wear something pink as part of their wedding costume. (The Grand Duke Ferdinando de Medici and his young bride were said to have worn a matching pair of roses carved from pink diamonds.)**

 **However, there are many degrees and types of love. The ancient Greeks distinguished between _eros_ , _storge_ , _philia_ , and _agape_. A Chinese proverb says 'Nothing is as pink as the spirit-light of a father regarding his newborn child'. Certain tribes in Papua New Guinea exchanged pink coral beads in friendship bonding ceremonies. Coptic icons of the 5th century depicted Christ on the Cross with a pink aura, indicating His love for humanity. It would be more accurate to describe the pink aura as signalling affection. Young people of all cultures and eras have discovered, often painfully, that a glimpse of pink is _not_ always proof of romance, much less a guarantee of a lasting relationship. In the words of a popular American singer, "Pink ain't what you think".**

 ** _100 Shades of Pink: Auratic Symbolism in World Cultures_**

They're sat on Robbie's sofa, watching a very bad 70s sci-fi film that James has dubbed 'Sherlock Holmes in the 25th Century'. The role of Dr Watson is played by a robot. Someone is killing prostitutes on a space station, Jack the Ripper style.

James objects to the technological inconsistencies. "Four centuries from now, and they've got artificial gravity and advanced robots, but no CCTVs, even in high-security areas?"

The culprit is laughably obvious, and is caught because the robot has incriminating recordings of his aura. Robbie is willing to believe that someday science may be able to record the human aura, but the idea that an aura can show guilt is completely bonkers. "Nervousness, yeah. I See suspects all the time that are as grey as a mile of wet pavement. Being questioned by the police will do that, even to innocent people. But guilt? Even if you could See guilt, there'd be no way to tell if the bloke felt guilty because he'd nicked a Mars Bar—"

"Or a car," James interjects.

"Aye, or if he'd murdered the upstairs neighbour. Even Morse couldn't have done it from the aura alone, and he had the keenest Sight of any copper I've known."

James nods. "The early Church Fathers debated whether sin could be identified in the colours of the aura, and if Adam's had changed after the Fall." He launches into a lively account of a heretical sect of Valentinian Gnostics who thought that auras were sparks of the Divine trapped within mortal flesh.

Robbie listens carefully, not because he gives a damn about the Church Fathers—aren't all priests Fathers?—but because he's pleased that James can talk so easily about something he's never experienced. And if he copes with his... lack by immersing himself with research into auras, Robbie won't discourage him.

And then comes Crevecoeur. More lies from James, and a feeling of betrayal that's replaced by guilt when the lad takes a bullet meant for his governor. Afterwards, listening to that bastard Mortmaigne rhapsodise about the beautiful auras of the young and innocent, Robbie finds himself thanking God that James is a Blank, that he wouldn't have been a target.

He's also thankful that he's able to talk the daft sod out of resigning. It would be a shame for the Force to lose such a promising detective. Hathaway will be an Inspector one day, he's certain of that. And Robbie would miss his best mate, though he doesn't say that bit aloud.

Does James feel the same way about him? There's a million reasons why he shouldn't, starting with the difference in age and rank. And yet, most Friday nights that they're not working an active case, there's James in his DI's flat, sharing takeaway and beer, and conversation.

Then comes the day that he realises he'd like to be more than a friend to James Hathaway. It's a foolish, impossible idea, but it won't go away. And for the first time since they met at Heathrow, Robbie wishes that James was not a Blank. He's got better at reading the man's subtle body language: the twitch of the lips, the arch of an eyebrow. But for something this important, he wishes he could See the man, if only just for a few seconds...

It's a few weeks later that he realises that James is pulling away from him—has been for a while now. There's no overt break, just fewer pints after work, fewer evenings of takeaway, telly, and interesting conversations. It's bewildering and maddening. Robbie is willing to swear that he hasn't done anything to offend the younger man, so why is their friendship falling apart?

 _Unless it was never real_. That's his greatest fear: that James has been acting out of pity, and he's finally got tired of humouring his lonely old boss. _He wouldn't do that! He's not like that_ , an inner voice protests, only to have another voice reply, _How do you know what he's like? You've never Seen him._

It's after a few days of this that he finds himself in Laura's office, looking for a toxicology report on a suspected poisoning. After she's given him the written report, and a much-needed explanation in plain English, she pauses. "Something on your mind?"

He's got a denial on the tip of his tongue, then gives in. She knows him too well. "Hathaway," Robbie growls.

"Ahhh..." Laura's tone is sympathetic, but there's a flicker of amusement in her aura. "What has the enigmatic sergeant done now?"

"He hasn't done anything. It just seems like everything I say to him is wrong." He sighs. "I'm starting to think I wouldn't understand him even if he was lit up as bright and colourful as a Christmas tree."

She studies him, and he shifts his weight uneasily. Laura's Sight is keener than almost anyone he's known, maybe even Morse. It's why she prefers to work with the dead instead of the living, she told him once. "Does he know? Have you told him?"

"Know what?"

The sympathy is deeper now, and the amusement is gone. "That you're in love with him."

Robbie gapes at her.

"You don't have to talk about it, if you don't want to, but please don't insult me by denying it."

 _They'd have burned you as a witch in the Middle Ages. Too canny by half, you are_. "There's nothing to talk about. He doesn't know, and if he did..." Robbie shrugs. The answer to _that_ is clear enough, and he's no intention of embarrassing himself further by discussing it with Laura.

"Don't underestimate him, Robbie. Or yourself."

* * *

 **"Red is for rage, but also for blood and courage and for life"**

 **Anonymous political leaflet**

It happens so fast. After a too-long day at work, they go out for a bite of dinner. No takeaway in front of the telly tonight. Instead, they settle for a cramped, rickety table at the unpalatial Jade Palace. The location is convenient, and the food's decent. Afterwards, James discovers that he's out of cigarettes, so they head to a nearby off-license.

They're the only customers at the moment. It's a small place, with just a basic selection of beers, wines, and spirits. There's a display rack of crisps, chocolate bars, and breath mints. The cigarettes are on a shelf behind the counter, along with the pricier spirits and a selection of condoms. Robbie studies the snacks while James speaks to the shop assistant, an African woman with greying hair and a placid lavender aura.

The bell over the door chimes as another customer enters the shop. One moment, James is shouting, "Get down!" Next thing he knows, he's on the floor, staring at scattered packets of crisps. There's a snarled obscenity somewhere behind him, and a female scream, followed by a crashing sound, and a chemical smell. By the time he scrambles to his feet, James is in the doorway, cuffing a sullen-faced young man whose aura is almost scarlet with rage. "Mind your step, sir. It's some kind of chemical," James warns.

'It' is a puddle of clear liquid mixed with shards of broken glass—the source of the nasty smell. Robbie moves carefully, and guides the still-trembling shop assistant around the puddle and outside to the safety and fresher air of the pavement.

Within a few minutes, a pair of constables collect the suspect. Another pair stand guard outside the shop until the HazMat unit arrives. The rest of the night is tied up with formalities, including a visit to A&E, with blood tests to verify that they haven't inhaled anything toxic. The inevitable paperwork can wait until the morning. They won't get to interview the suspect, William Braddick of Wolverton, age 19. Robbie and James are considered witnesses in this case, which is part of a larger investigation by a task force on anti-immigrant violence. Mr Braddick is believed to be a new member of a gang loosely inspired by Britons Arise.

"Most of his mates have been satisfied with simpler stuff like rocks through a window or a jar full of piss. Our boy Billy decided he'd do them one better, and have a gas attack. Fortunately, he's pants at basic chemistry," DI Richards tells Robbie. The amateur device consisted of a small, sealed jar inside a larger one, each containing a different liquid. When it was thrown into the shop, the impact broke both jars, allowing their contents to mix. That should have created a toxic gas. "Probably not fatal, but it would do a nasty job on the lungs of anyone who breathed it in." The simple recipe called for ammonia, plus other common household chemicals. Young Mr Braddick had acquired his ingredients by nicking them from his mum's cleaning cupboard. Not finding any pure ammonia, he settled for a bottle of window cleaner composed of water, alcohol, "lemony-fresh fragrance", and a tiny percentage of ammonia.

Robbie goes to his bed shortly before 1:00 AM. Despite his exhaustion, it takes a while to calm down enough to sleep. He spent part of that time feeling grateful for the ineptitude of the would-be terrorist.

In the morning—well, later that morning—his bagman picks him up. "You doing all right, Hathaway? No problems from last night?"

James sighs. "No direct problems, sir." Robbie waits. "I wanted a smoke before I went to bed, and discovered that with all the distractions, I forgot to take the ciggies from the shop."

 _Then you escaped two poisons last night_. Robbie doesn't say it aloud. He's stated his opinion about smoking more than. Hathaway is an adult, and Robbie can't control his personal decisions—not as his governor, and not as his friend. _If he's still my friend._

They arrive at the nick to discover that DI Richards has already interviewed William Braddick. Listening to Richards' summary of the interview, Robbie is glad he missed it. Braddick was proud of what he'd done. The insolent little toe-rag only regretted that his chemical device hadn't been more effective. "He intended to wait until you two had cleared out, but he said that the shop assistant gave him 'an evil look' and he lost it."

Richards invites them to watch his interview with Patience Dabengwa, the shop assistant. "I heard the bell ring when the door opened," she explains. "I saw the boy come in. His spirit was grey—very nervous. I thought, he wants to buy prophylactics, but he is embarrassed. It is often so with the young ones. They don't like to buy those things from a woman old enough to be their grandmama. So I didn't smile at him. I looked away." Her aura is mostly a calm lavender now, with only a few streaks of anxious grey remaining from last night's shock. "Then the policeman—the white loud one—shouted for me to get down, and as I moved, I looked again. The boy's spirit was so angry. Red like blood."

After the interview, Richards comes out to speak to them. "She'll be a good witness in court. Observant, clear-speaking."

"That she will," Robbie agrees. "There was just one thing I didn't understand. Why did she call Hathaway the 'white loud' policeman?"

Richards glances at Hathaway before turning back to Robbie. HIs aura is tightly shuttered, with flickers of uneasy grey. "I think you misheard her. She said 'white cloud'. It's a colloquial term in southern Africa—"

"It's slang for a Blank," Hathaway says flatly.

"It's not derogatory," Richards assures them. "Just a bit... old-fashioned."

Robbie looks at James and gets an almost imperceptible nod in response. Not an insult... but he's sure that James has heard many 'colloquial terms' that are.

The awkward moment is broken by the ring of Hathaway's mobile. "Excuse me, sirs." He strides a few yards down the hallway, phone pressed to his ear. He returns half a minute later and addresses his governor. "It's Ellen Grant. She's found some paperwork belonging to her ex-husband."

It looks as though one of their cold cases may be warming up. "You go ahead, Hathaway. I'll finish up here." There's nothing that he _has_ to take care of, as this isn't their case, but Robbie still has questions about what happened last night. There are some things he'd like to get clear in his mind. He asks Richards' permission to view the video footage from the shop's security cameras.

DI Richards seems relieved. "Just go down to the lab. I'll tell them to expect you."

When he arrives, the technician has the disc in a laptop and ready to play. It's video only, he warns Robbie—no audio. First, he shows the feed from the camera that faces the entrance. The door opens. William Braddick stands there, his face expressionless. A few seconds later, his right hand dips into his coat pocket and pulls out a jar of clear liquid. He hurls it into the shop, then turns to run. Hathaway appears in the frame and grabs Braddick, who seems too startled to struggle.

"Here's the other one, sir," the tech tells Robbie. He clicks a few keys, bringing up the footage from the camera covering the counter. There he is, studying a rack of magazines while Hathaway pays for his ciggies. Patience Dabengwa looks towards the door, then lowers her gaze. She's starting to count out the change when James turns to look at the door. He shouts silently at Dabengwa to get down, and shoves Robbie out of the way, following out of the range of the camera. The jar crashes against the base of the counter, sending liquid and glass shards spraying in a wide semicircle. James reappears in the frame, sprinting towards the doorway.

It all fits his recollection, but something is niggling at his mind. "Can you show both of them at the same time? And slow them down?" The tech can do that. He sets up a split screen, and shows Robbie how to advance the synched images frame by frame. He mutters something about other duties—likely a smoke or coffee break, Robbie thinks—and hurries out of the room.

Robbie turns his attention back to the laptop. _Click_. James lays a tenner on the counter. The door begins to open.

 _Click_. Patience Dabengwa reaches into the cash register. A figure is partly visible in the half-open door.

 _Click. Click._ She looks up. William Braddick is standing in the doorway. His face is taut, his posture stiff. The camera can't show auras, of course, but this would be the point when Braddick's was still grey with worry, according to Dabengwa's testimony,

 _Click._ Dabengwa looks down. James turns to glance at the door. Braddick's face is unchanged. His right hand moves upwards.

 _Click._ James opens his mouth to shout a warning. Braddick reaches into his pocket.

 _Click. Click. Click._ Dabengwa drops out of sight behind the counter. James shoves Robbie off to the side. Braddicks' arm swings forward, light glinting on the cylindrical object in his hand.

 _Click. Click. Click._ _Click. Click. Click._ _Click._ Robbie advances through the rest of the scene quickly, pausing when Braddick is cuffed. Something isn't quite right, but he can't quite put his finger on it. He rewinds to the beginning and starts over. _Click. Click. Click._

He's on the third go-through when he realises what's bothering him. Why did James shout a warning when he did? Braddick wasn't doing anything threatening at that point. His hand was rising, but not yet near his pocket. He might have been reaching for his wallet—or planning to scratch his nose. There's nothing in his face or body language to make even a suspicious copper react like that. Robbie himself wouldn't have done it.

 _Yes, you would have done. You'd have Seen his aura go red. The little bastard said he got angry when the assistant looked away from him, and she Saw him after James shouted._ By the time he's reviewed the video for the fourth and final time, Robbie is convinced. There's no other explanation: James can See auras. He isn't Blind.

At first, he's confused. Blank but not Blind? There are such people, he knows, though they're rare. He doesn't quite remember the cause... some medical condition, most likely. Next comes anger. _Why didn't he tell me? Why didn't he trust me? He lied—no, he didn't. Just let me assume... but that's a lie by omission._

Robbie switches off the computer. He exits the lab, and follows a flow of people towards the outside. His watch tells him it's lunchtime. He's not sure that he wants food, but he's certain he needs fresh air and a place to walk.

It's not exactly quiet by the river, not on a sunny afternoon in September. Robbie can ignore the people chatting and laughing, the ding of bicycle bells, the squawks of hungry ducks, and the rumble of traffic. They all blur together into background noise. As he walks, he calms down. Why didn't James tell him? At first, it was probably just deeply ingrained caution. He's have learned early on not to reveal his secret, for fear of being called a sneak and a spy. Most people wouldn't take well to the idea of being in the presence of someone who could See their feelings while keeping their own hidden.

The penny drops. _Oh, God. James knows about me._ Robbie stumbles over to a vacant bench and drops down onto it. All those evenings together... _I must have been as pink as a Jubilee rose. No wonder he's been pulling away._

What now? What can he possibly say to James, who must be mortified by his governor's inappropriate and unwanted attentions. Should Robbie offer him a transfer, if it can be managed without making a blemish on his record? What he'd like to do is go home, and put this out of his mind with the help of some liquid forgetfulness.

No. He won't. When he left for the BVI, he swore on Val's grave that he wouldn't do that to himself again. And it would only delay, not solve, the problem of James.

"There you are, sir!" As if summoned by his thoughts, Detective Sergeant James Hathaway appears in front of Robbie's bench. "I've got the papers from Ms. Grant They—are you all right, sir?" James sits down and peers at him.

Robbie has no idea what colour his aura is right now, but his face is probably one big frown. "I'm fine," he snaps, then sighs. "Sorry. Look, we need to talk, but not here."

James nods. "Your place? It's closer."

There they are, once again sat on Robbie's sofa. The telly is dark and silent. _Like a Blank_ , Robbie thinks, then pushes that out of his mind. _Where do I start?_

"Begin at the beginning, and go on till you come to the end: then stop." James says suddenly.

It has the sound of a quote, but Robbie doesn't ask. He can't afford distractions. "I know you're not Blind. I know you Saw Barnes go red last night, that's why you shouted a warning." He feels he ought to be saying something more, but can't think of anything.

"I should have realised you'd figure it out. I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. It never seemed the right time." James stares at a patch of sunlight on the floor. "I could See how you felt about me, and I didn't want you to know how... broken I am."

Robbie tries to make sense of what he's hearing. _Broken? He's just Blank, that's all._ And then he remembers what he read years ago about Late-Onset Achromatism: previously normal children losing their auras following some kind of severe trauma. In most cases, the victims retained their Sight. It was a form of self-defense, the book said. A way of hiding.

"Mortmaigne," he snarls. "Did he—" Robbie bites back the rest of the sentence. He has no right to ask.

"He never touched me," James says wearily. "He just watched me. Told me how beautiful my aura was, how special. But I could See him, and when no one else was around—" He grimaces, "I never knew before that pink could be ugly. And one day His Lordship asked if I wanted to learn to play the piano. I said I didn't, but he kept looking at me, and I didn't want him to See me any more. I wanted to be invisible, and I shuttered tighter than I ever had in my life." He lets out a long breath. "I didn't know how well I'd succeeded until I ran home. My mum looked at me and screamed. I was eleven. We left Crevecoeur the following year."

There are so many questions bubbling in Robbie's mind, but none that he will ask, because the answers might break his heart. It's just as well that Augustus Mortmaigne is safely locked away in HMP Ashfield, because if the man was in front of him just now, Robbie would be very tempted to commit Grievous Bodily Harm.

"Sir?" James is staring at him.

 _Shit._ His aura is probably red with fury. Not what James wants to See, he's sure. And then he thinks about what else James has Seen in him and likely didn't appreciate. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry? For what?"

He tries to make light of it. "Looking with intent. It's obviously made you uncomfortable. I'm sorry about that. And I'm hoping that we can still be mates."

"Of course." The reply is immediate and sincere.

"I won't ask for anything more. Promise."

James shifts his position awkwardly, but keeps his eyes fixed on Robbie's. "Actually, I might... eventually... I don't know."

"But you thought I'd lose interest if I found out that you were 'broken'?" Robbie spits out the last word with the contempt that it deserves. "Bollocks. You're not—"

"I am," James says calmly. "I've had twenty years to get used to it. I'm not a normal Blank—that's just an unlucky draw in the genetic lottery. I _am_ damaged, even if it was a self-inflicted wound to protect myself. That's not the problem." He rises, and begins to pace around the room.

 _Then what_ _is the bloody problem?_ Robbie studies James as though he's revising for an examination. _He's a complicated sod._ _Brilliant. Funny. Sharp-tongued. Proud as Lucifer, as Gran used to say_. _Proud!_ The answer comes to him as clearly as if it was written on one of those flashcards that Val used to help the kids with their times tables. "And you don't want anyone trying to fix you."

James spins around. "I—yes."

There are shadows behind his gaze that make Robbie wonder if there have been friends or lovers in the past who tried to 'help' him. It's possible to restore a vanished aura, but very rare. Probably takes years of therapy. It's not a 'kiss it and make it better' condition. "All right. I won't," he says in the most matter-of-fact tone he can muster.

The stiffness in James's shoulders eases. "So, I'm perfect the way I am?" he says with mock scepticism.

"Practically perfect in every way," Robbie replies, wondering if James will recognise the quote. "Except for being a facetious smartarse with strange tastes in music."

"Guilt as charged, m'lud," James says with a quirk of his lips that belies his solemn tone. "May I offer some evidence in my defence?"

"You may proceed."

"I have excellent taste in friends." The lips part in a full-blown grin.

Robbie bursts into laughter. He hasn't got any more words just now, but he doesn't need them. He knows that James can see his aura, which is surely the yellow-gold of joy.

"What now?" James asks.

He shrugs. It's too soon to be worrying about their future. "Right now? I reckon we get back to work. It's barely half-two. I want to see those papers from Ms Grant."

"There are some very odd numbers in them, sir. I think we might want to give them to a forensic accountant."

And they walk out into golden light of an autumn afternoon.

 **A Chinese sage was asked by his student, "Master, why is the sky coloured blue with sorrow?"  
** **The sage replied, "That we may better appreciate the joyous sun."**

 ** _Wisdom Stories from Around the World_**

— THE END —


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